Twisted (Never After Series)

“He doesn’t look sick.”

The words slice through my clothes and prick against my chest. If I weren’t brought up to remain politically shrewd and cordial, I’d snap and say something out of turn like…

“Read the room, Debbie. You sound like a clown.”

Instead, I chew the inside of my cheek and pick up my water, allowing the weight of the crystal in my palm and the cool bite of liquid against my lip to keep me quiet.

Besides, I’m confident that Debbie, the young, shiny wife of New York’s governor, didn’t mean for me to hear what she said. Or maybe she did. Rude of her, considering we’re at my house, but I guess we can’t all have manners.

I follow her stare, down the length of my espresso-stained  dining table, until my gaze hits my father at the head, his dark skin looking sallow and worn. Deep bags line his tired eyes, the splotches of purple indicating the fact that he is, in fact, quite ill. But I guess if someone hasn’t spent years of their life memorizing the minuscule changes of every one of his features, I could see how he might look simply overtired. And for a man who owns and runs a multibillion- dollar empire that controls most of the world’s jewels, being overtired is synonymous with normal.

I’m sure he will be thrilled people can’t see the change in his health.

Jealousy squeezes my middle, and for just a moment, I wish I could trade places with someone else in the room, anyone else, if it meant I could pretend he was still okay.

The tilapia from our last course threatens to surge back up my throat, nausea tossing my stomach, because I know my wish is impossible to grant. Maybe they don’t see the difference, but I do.

I see it in the way his movements are stiff and stilted, like there’s concrete coating his bones that he can’t seem to shake off.

I see it in the downturn of his lips when he thinks no one is watching, the way he soaks in small inconsequential details that we all take for granted every day.

And most of all, I see it in his absence, every time he locks himself away, sparing me from having to watch as the radiation and chemo burn through his veins, destroying everything in their path.

That’s what cancer does. It ravages you from the inside out without caring who you are. It doesn’t matter whether you keep the world in the palm of your hand or if you have more money than God.

It just feeds on death.

And death always wins, one way or another.

My gaze moves from my father to the French doors that line the far wall and open to the back of our estate. I focus on how the stars twinkle against the black sky and how the deep blue lights of the expansive swimming pool create a haunting glow over everything they touch.

Anything to keep me from focusing on the problems I can’t seem to outrun.

Debbie giggles and draws my attention away to where she’s practically purring at the man sitting next to her.

Julian Faraci.

His dark eyes, as black as bottomless pits, are already on mine, searing through my mask of polite quiescence and stripping me down until I feel like a small, worthless girl primed and ready to be squished beneath his shoe.

I remember when he first came around, hired on as the COO of Sultans when I was fifteen, and like the naive girl that I was eight years ago, I developed a crush. He was a power-hungry twenty-  eight- year- old man, and whenever I’d come home from boarding school for the holidays, I’d hero-worship him, blinded by his appearance  and sucked in by the commanding nature that bled from his pores.

But it only took one time of me overhearing him try to convince my father to keep me locked away that my stomach stopped fluttering in his presence.

She’s bad for business. You shouldn’t let your daughter show up and distract you when you’re supposed to be focused on things here. Shame she isn’t a boy. Who will you leave everything to?

That last line was the nail in the coffin of my crush on Julian Faraci, and anything I’ve felt since has been little more than hatred.

No loss, really. By then, I’d turned my sights on my best friend anyway.

My gaze narrows on Julian, irritation stabbing at my skin like needles. He smirks, lifting up his wine and tilting it toward me, the tattoos on his other hand shifting with the flex of his knuckles as he brushes it through his disheveled black hair.

A small drop of water from my drink splashes on the back of my wrist, and I set down my glass quickly, tearing my eyes away from his taunting gaze while I shove my trembling fingers beneath my thighs.

My phone vibrates in my lap, and I bend my head down, seeing a notification from the boy who’s held my heart since we were kids.

Aidan: You’re beautiful

My heart flutters and I grin despite myself, glancing around to see where he is. His mom is standing in the corner of the room, her blond hair pulled back in a tight bun, the way every member of the staff in our house is told to wear it, and her gaze is pointed down.

Is he working with her tonight?

“Yasmin.” My father’s harsh voice cuts through the fog, and I snap my gaze back, meeting the eyes of the twenty people around the table who are now focused on me.

“I’m sorry.” I force a smile and bring my hands up to clutch my silverware. “I must have missed what you said.”

“The governor asked what you think about your father’s newest acquisition.” Julian’s voice is cold yet smooth as butter, and a chill skirts down my spine. It’s rude for him to have a voice like that and a face like he does when his soul is so rotten. He looks over to Governor Cassum, smiling sardonically. “Yasmin has no clue about the ins and outs of our business. She’s been busy frolicking in…” He glances at me. “Where was it? Oregon for college?”

My fork clinks against the plate as I set it down and turn my attention to Governor Cassum, my teeth gritting from the control it takes me not to throw my knife across the table and hope it stabs Julian in his cold, dead heart.

Despite what everyone seems to think, I do know what goes on in my father’s business. He may try to shield it from me, but growing up around a man who is as powerful as him means I’ve seen and heard more than my fair share of under- the- table deals.

Besides, having Memfi Romano, a rumored capo of the Italian Mafia, stop by to personally drop off gifts for the holidays every year doesn’t really scream aboveboard.

To the majority of the world, though, my father simply specializes in selling the idea of love through overpriced jewels. The brand name alone is enough to wow, but add on the catchy taglines and the millions of dollars dumped in marketing every year that plaster Sultans diamonds all over TV and billboards, and he’s the quintessential poster boy for elegance and sparkle.

“Turn your love from in the rough to spectacular with a Sultans diamond.”

“I wouldn’t presume to know the ins and outs of my father’s business,” I say, emphasizing the word my purely for Julian’s benefit. “But if you’re asking for my opinion on the moral implications of continuing to trade diamonds in conflict areas, then I’m more than happy to give you my thoughts.”

Someone scoffs to my left, and my eyes are drawn back to Julian. His sharp jaw twitches, highlighting the five- o’clock shadow that accents his tan face.

Now it’s my turn to smirk, and I do, lifting the corner of my mouth as I glare at my father’s right-hand man. His eyes narrow,  irritation splashing across his features like the flash of a camera. It makes me extremely satisfied to see that I’ve gotten under his skin with my remark, just the way I had hoped it would.

After all, I said the quiet part out loud, the part you’re never supposed to actually say.

Everyone at this table knows that regardless of slapping a “conflict- free” label on the diamonds Sultans sells, it doesn’t mean they’re actually conflict-free. They’re just… regulated. And I know my family’s business well enough to know that regulations are more of a smoke screen than an actuality. They have been ever since my grandfather immigrated from Lebanon and built Sultans from the ground up, forging relationships with whomever he needed in order to gain access to the diamond industry.

My father breaks the tension, chuckling. “These days, kids run off to university and think they’re ready to take on the world. This is just another example of why men should run the country and women should stay at home and care for the children.”

Heat sears my cheeks, and I peer back down at my lap as chuckles ring out around the table. I’m not truly embarrassed. I’m used to my father’s misogynistic rhetoric, and despite what he says, I know he loves me. He may not be a good man, but he’s always been good to me, and I love him despite his outdated ideas and less- than-savory business tactics.

It’s amazing what we’re capable of overlooking— what we’re willing to do— when it comes to those we love.

My father’s eyes soften as they take me in. “You’ll make a wonderful mother with that caring heart, habibti.”

The truth is, I don’t even want to be a mother. All I want to do is take pictures. But that’s not an acceptable career for the daughter of Ali Karam. I’m not sure any career would be acceptable. My father is happy as a peach knowing that I’m home for good and done with the “experience” of higher education.

Julian leans in and speaks to my father while the other dignitaries start up their superficial conversations that mean nothing and do nothing other than stroke their own egos, and just like that, the attention is off me. My phone vibrates again.

Aidan: I can’t wait to touch you

My fingers drift over my lips, excitement bubbling in my middle as I think of ways to escape this boring dinner and find Aidan. My foot taps against the marble floor of the dining room and I glance around, my insides fidgety.

I could probably leave without anyone even noticing.

But I don’t, because no matter how much I want to, the etiquette that’s been bludgeoned into my psyche since birth reigns supreme. It isn’t until dessert is finished and the men excuse themselves to my father’s cigar room that I press a hand against my head and feign a yawn.

“Are you all right, Yasmin?” Debbie asks, her copper brows drawing in.

The few other women left at the table— mostly wives, a few mistresses— look at me in mock concern.

“A headache, I’m afraid. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.” My eyes glance toward the hallway. “If you’ll excuse me.”

My fingers curl around the wood as I push back from the table and walk past the few estate staff clearing the dirty dishes, scanning to see if Aidan is one of them. He isn’t. I pull out my phone the second I’m around the corner, my fingers flying as I type out a message of where to meet, butterflies fluttering in my stomach.